


Path of the Ordeal

by Starlingthefool



Category: Sherlock Holmes (2009)
Genre: BDSM, D/s, Kink, Kink Meme, M/M, Multi, Sadomasochism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-05
Updated: 2010-04-05
Packaged: 2017-10-08 17:36:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/77915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Starlingthefool/pseuds/Starlingthefool
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Holmes' breath quickened as the footsteps came nearer. They were too heavy to belong to a woman. The gait was familiar, the slight pause indicating a limp in the right leg. He caught a waft of cologne, recognized it with a lurch in his stomach. Holmes opened his mouth.</i></p><p>"Remember the rules, Sherlock," Ms Resham admonished him. "If you break them, the game is over."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Path of the Ordeal

**Author's Note:**

> Someone over on[](http://sherlockkink.livejournal.com/profile)[**sherlockkink**](http://sherlockkink.livejournal.com/) asked for a masochistic and submissive Holmes, subbing for a femme Dom that was just as manipulative as he was, knew about his _thing_ for Watson, and used it during one of their sessions. Somehow, this turned into 6000 words of porn with nearly every kink I could throw in.

The leather around his wrists was certainly horsehide, Holmes thought. Newly bought the night before. The scent of the tanner's shop still clung to it. He tested the tensile strength of the ropes that looped through the rings attached to the cuffs. The ropes were attached to two hooks in the ceiling, about three feet above his outstretched hands. They were quite sufficient to hold him.

The blindfold was hand-stitched silk. It smelled of Ms Resham's jasmine perfume. Also of human sweat; his own.

A match struck, there was a hissing as a cigarette was lit. She was behind him, slightly to the right. By the fireplace then.

"Good evening, Ms Resham."

"It's going to be, yes." A waft of aromatic smoke accompanied her words. Turkish cigarettes. "I have a surprise for you, Sherlock."

A sting as she flicked cigarette ash on him, hot pinprick on his right shoulder that faded to a glowing warmth.

"A surprise?" he asked.

Her gloved hand tangled itself in his hair, tugging it back. Holmes was keenly aware of his exposed neck, and the lit cigarette in her other hand.

"Yes. Do you object?"

"No, madam." The hand moved down, wrapped itself around his neck. Lace gloves. Probably black. Wrist length. The fingers squeezed his neck once, then released. A warning.

"Good. Not that it would matter. You're mine to do with as I please. Isn't that so?"

"Yes," Holmes said, voice low.

The gloved hands paused. "Excuse me?"

"Yes madam."

There was a whistle and a stinging burn as the riding crop hit his thighs. He gasped. A flush crept up his skin.

"Mind your manners, Sherlock," Ms Resham said.

"Yes madam. Sorry madam." The hand left his neck. A rustle of silk and satin as she moved around him.

He could feel the speed of his thoughts slowing, the everpresent noise in his mind quieting, the usual deafening roar becoming distant. A quite unforeseen side effect of this sort of power exchange; giving over the reins of the wild horses that were his thoughts quieted them. A dangerous sort of pleasure.

  
He and Watson had first met Ms Resham through a case. A murdered Parisian artist had been found in Chelsea. Through a rather circuitous path, they had found their way to Ms Resham's, where the murdered man had spent some time the night before he was murdered.

He had been wrong in assuming it was an ordinary brothel. Ms. Resham served a select clientele, who paid handsomely for the services she and her staff provided, which were of a rather extraordinary type.

"Monsieur Latours liked women to take mastery over him," she told he and Watson, after serving them tea. "To dominate him, impose their will upon him."

Watson was bristling next to him. Holmes could feel a flush radiating off of him, and there was a tenseness in his shoulders. Holmes, for his part, leaned forward.

"Did he?" Holmes asked. "Fascinating. Tell me, was corporal punishment involved?"

Ms Resham nodded. "Sometimes," she said. She had met them in her sitting room, which was well away from the more public rooms of the house. It was quiet in here, with little noise penetrating from either within the house or the outside street.

"Something thin and flexible. A thin branch rod?" Holmes asked.

"He was partial to willow switches," Ms Resham said, smiling.

"And restraints? Manacles? Attached by a length of fine chain, so his arms were held above his head?"

"Impressive, Mr Holmes. I'd heard about your remarkable skills. It's rewarding to know the rumors were true."

"So you were responsible for the marks upon his back and wrists?" Watson asked. He sounded indignant.

"Me? No. I believe Lucille was with him that night. They finished around eleven and Monsieur Latours left at midnight for his hotel. I myself see very few clients these days. Though I sometimes make exceptions." She favored Watson with a look that made the man shift in his seat. Holmes nearly smiled; he could tell that she was enjoying the good doctor's discomfort. He himself thought it rather amusing. Watson's was, as a rule, no stranger to vice and women of low repute, but things had shifted now that he was married. He'd become more prudish and conventional. To the outer world, at least. Holmes wondered when he would give up the pretense of being a boring man.  
Watson pulled out his watch and looked at it pointedly.

"Am I keeping you, gentleman?" Ms Resham asked.

"Not at all," Holmes said, just as Watson said, "Actually-"

They looked at each other. "I should go," Watson said in a low voice. "Mary–"

Holmes flapped an impatient hand at him. "Yes, yes."

Watson gave a sigh – his special "Lord, give me strength" sigh that was reserved only for Holmes – and then stood. "Good day to you, Ms Resham."

"Good day, Doctor Watson."

"Mary is his wife?" Ms Resham asked, after Watson left.

Holmes grunted his assent, patting down his pockets in search of his tobacco. "Yes."

"Ah," she said delicately. Then, after observing him for a moment, she added, "You don't like her?"

Holmes looked up at ceiling. "She's a fine woman,"

"So it's your friend's behavior now that he's married, that's what you don't like."

Holmes paused, looking at her. She stared back at him levelly. "Why do you ask?"

"No real reason. I'm just fascinated by the inner workings of others. Particularly men. It's my trade, after all."

"Is that so?" Holmes asked, lighting his pipe. His mood had soured, and his tone was curt.

"We're not so different, perhaps," Ms. Resham said. "You can see a small detail and surmise much from it. So can I, though perhaps I'm not so methodical."

"In what way?"

Ms Resham leaned back in her chair, lighting a cigarette. "I can see that you have your share of vices. You don't feel bound by morals. You're a fighter. You take drugs on occasion. Not opium though, or morphine. Cocaine?"

Holmes nodded, rather graciously he thought. His knuckles were scarred, and there were marks on his hands from injections. All of these were rather obvious conclusions, except for the cocaine, but that seemed more of a guess.

"Well done," he said. "You're quite–"

"You get overwhelmed in crowded rooms. You prefer either the open street or your flat."

Holmes stopped. "How could you possibly infer such a thing?"

"You often feel adrift," she said. "Bored. You suffer from melancholy. You've few people you consider true friends, besides Mr Watson. Him, however, you would kill for."

Holmes felt his mouth drop open. He felt as though something heavy and cold was sitting on his stomach. Watson had often told him that his reasonable deductions could be unnerving, but this was uncanny.

"I can see I've at least found a few truths, Mr Holmes."

"You've been making inquiries about me?" he said.

"Yes, once I learned who was investigating Monsieur Latours' death. Although you do a good job of keeping your privacy. Do you not believe that I've inferred all that from our meeting?"

"My good lady, in truth, I cannot."

"Shall I go on, then?"

"Ms Resham–"

"You've had very little experience with women. They don't interest you, sexually or mentally. Not most of them, anyway. But I think I've got your attention, don't I?"

Holmes became aware that his mouth was hanging open.

Ms Resham smiled. "Like I said, we're not so different. You look at someone and see they've done, where they've been. I look and see what they need, what they want." She paused, drawing on her cigarette. "I don't think you're very different from Monsieur Latours."

His breath had quickened. He made an effort to slow it again.

"Luckily for you," Ms Resham said, "I can take on another client."

It took him two more days to solve the case, and a week for him to call on Ms Resham again. He had his first appointment with her two weeks later.

  
"The rules, then," Ms Resham said, bringing Holmes out of his reverie. "You are not allowed to speak anything but the following words: yes, no, madam, please, and thank you. Nothing else. Understand?"

"Yes, madam."

He felt the cigarette touch his lips, and he took a quick drag on it.

"Good boy," Ms Resham said, and withdrew. Holmes exhaled the smoke slowly, waiting.

The latch clicked, the door opened quietly on well-oiled hinges. A brush of air against his bare skin. A footstep, then another. The door shut.

Holmes' breath quickened as the footsteps came nearer. They were too heavy to belong to a woman. The gait was familiar, the slight pause indicating a limp in the right leg. He caught a waft of cologne, recognized it with a lurch in his stomach. Holmes opened his mouth.

"Remember the rules, Sherlock," Ms Resham admonished him. "If you break them, the game is over."

Holmes shut his mouth slowly, licking his lips. The question was burning on his tongue – _Watson?_ He had to know, he needed to know, if it was truly his friend standing behind him, or some impostor that Ms Resham had hired.

He was so distracted, he didn't hear the crop whistle through the air. He cried out as it connected with the skin of his hip, then again on the opposite side. He started to sag forward, but Ms Resham's hand fisted in his hair, yanking him back.

"If you don't stop being childish, this will all stop. He will leave, and I will leave, and you will go home, wondering at the amazing opportunity that you have just missed."

The hand tightened. Holmes gasped.

"Let it go, Sherlock." Her voice was gentler now, but still assertive. "Just for now. Let it go."

The hand released him, and he sagged forward again. "Yes, madam."

"Good." She stepped away, back towards the fireplace. "You can touch him now," she said to the other man. Holmes shivered as he felt a warm presence as his back, and then a cool hand on his neck. It squeezed the tense muscles there, then drifted over to one shoulder. A step closer; Holmes could feel the brush of wool slacks against his bare legs, cotton shirtsleeves. The smell of the cologne was heady.

"You may use your mouth. Don't kiss him, though," Ms Resham spoke up.

Rough bristles of facial hair touched his shoulder, and then soft lips opened up. A tongue touched Holmes' neck, as though tasting him. Teeth closed around his ear. Holmes moaned softly, and the hands went around his waist.

It was Watson, he was sure of it. The height, the cologne, the mustache, the gait, all perfectly matched those of his flatmate and partner.

A second later, he doubted himself. Ms Resham was particularly adept at these games. She was as diabolical and depraved as any criminal, and took delight in pushing Holmes off-balance during these sessions. It was easy to assume that she had guessed of his infatuation with his friend. But that she could have convinced Watson to participate in one of their games seemed utterly impossible.

"He's not paying attention. Hit him."

The warmth at his back suddenly disappeared, and Holmes winced as he felt a bare hand slap him hard on the arse.

"Again."

The impact came again, on the other side. He rocked forward with the force of it, as warmth spread outwards across his skin.

He heard footsteps; high heels, Ms Resham taking measured footsteps towards him. A warm cloud of tobacco smoke blew in his face. "Your mind keeps wandering, Sherlock. We can't have that, can we?"

"No, madam," he murmured.

"Is something distracting you?"

He licked his lips. He could still smell the cologne, and feel the man's – _Watson's?_ – presence behind him. "Yes, madam."

"Should I send him out?" she asked.

"No!" Then, remembering what she'd want to hear, Holmes added; "Please."

A pause. "Very well. But I need to do something to keep you attentive." The footsteps walked away, towards the mantle, picking something up, and then back towards him again.

He heard the squealing of tiny hinges, just before Ms Resham attached the first clamp to his left nipple.

The pain was exquisite. It twisted his nerves into knots, made his muscles shiver. He could feel hands on his hips, steadying him as he squirmed. Wide palms, square fingers, the skin warm and dry.  
In his head, there was silence for a perfect moment.

"Here, put the other one on him," Ms Resham said softly.

The hands left his skin, and again, there was solid warmth against his back, the touch of cotton and wool. This comforted him, even as he felt one of the hands on his chest, ready to put the other clamp in its place. He realized that perhaps the question of the other man's true identity was not so important. After all, beyond the blindfold, he could be whoever Holmes wanted him to be.

Holmes bit his lip, exhaling hard as he felt its pinch. The hands then reached upwards, curling around his neck, thumb massaging the tense muscles there. He could smell the man's breath– tobacco, strong whisky, hints of peppermint – and feel the brush of it against his face. He leaned forward, and the man allowed their lips to brush.

He heard Ms Resham sigh. "Take your clothes off," she said softly.

There was a pause, and then the man stepped back. Holmes heard the whisper of cotton against skin, a buckle being undone, cloth hitting the floor. Then the man stepped back against him, and now it was heated skin that Holmes felt, a hard cock pressed against his thigh. His own prick responded almost instantly, blood thudding in his veins. The man's hands went to Holmes' sore arse, pulling Holmes towards him until their bodies were flush against each other.

Not caring if he would be punished for it, Holmes pushed forward and caught the man's mouth with his own. Pliant lips opened; there was the tickling of a mustache and the rough burn of stubble, hot breath, tinged with the smallest moan. Fingernails raked down Holmes' back, he could feel the raised lines they left. Holmes groaned into the man's open mouth, biting down on the lower lip. The man responded by winding a rough hand in his hair and tugging Holmes back, then biting down on his jaw.  
Holmes felt overwhelmed by sensations; lips and skin and teeth and hands, the leather straining against his wrists, the heavy breathing of his companion. It was too much, and not enough at the same time.

"Please," he said, remembering the words he was allowed to use.

The man responded by a long, powerful thrust of his hips. It was good, but not enough.

"Do you want more?" Ms Resham asked.

"Yes. Please," he repeated. "Please, yes, more."

The man gave a feral, breathy growl.

The strike of a match, brief scent of sulfur. Ms Resham had lit another cigarette. "Very well. Untie him," she said. Her voice was low.

Electric brush of skin, the scent of sweat and soap as the man reached up to undo the knots that held Holmes' wrists aloft. Holmes' hands clenched and unclenched, willing the blood back into his fingers. The man brought Holmes hands out in front of him, threading another length of rope through the cuffs and knotting it. He tugged on it experimentally, and Holmes grinned as he tugged back.

"On your knees, Sherlock."

Holmes went down willingly, happily. The man tugged on the rope again, urging him forward. Holmes crawled awkwardly on the rug, feeling its nap chafe his skin, until he felt bare feet in front of him. He opened his mouth, pressing a wet kiss to one of them. He grasped an ankle in his bound hands, rubbing his face to the smooth, soft skin. He felt a shiver rush through the in the other man as he ran his tongue alongside the bottom of the foot.

He made progress higher, pressing his cheeks and mouth to the man's shins and knees, but did not go any higher. He did not want to touch the man's right thigh, to feel it either whole or marred beneath his touch. He wanted to sustain the fantasy, that this really was Watson in front of him, as long as possible. It no longer mattered if it were true or not, but he could not stand for the fantasy to be disproved.

His imagination had always deferred to empirical evidence, after all. This served him well in his occupation, but less so in this particular instance. Which must be why Ms Resham had blindfolded him, and why the other man made almost no noise. Nothing could give the game away.

Holmes' hands were jerked up, and the man walked – that familiar uneven gait – around him. When his hands were suddenly released, Holmes fell forward onto the carpet. He felt the man crouch down behind him, running hands over his flanks. He could feel thumbs pressing into his inner thighs, spreading him apart. He flexed his hips, arched his back; flushing at the image in his mind's eye, imagining what the two of them looked like.

There was a pause, hushed anticipation.

"Do you want to use your mouth?"

"Yes, madam," Holmes answered automatically. "Please."

A moment later, there was the sting of a riding crop against his back. Holmes sucked in a breath as the sting spread out across his already-abused skin.

"Not you, Sherlock. Keep your mouth shut for a moment." There was a huff of air, probably a laugh. "You want to use your mouth on him? I can see you're tempted."

There was a pause, but no sound. Holmes fervently hoped the man was nodding.

"How filthy. You're both disgusting." There was a smile in her voice. "I like it. Go on then." She laughed then, and Holmes heard the creek of springs as she sat in her chair again, presumably to watch. There was a rush of air from the man behind him, a sigh that was nearly a groan. The thumbs that were on his thighs moved upward, rubbing the quivering muscles, stroking the crease of his thigh. A finger trailed down his sac, and he shivered.

He felt a breath against the cheek of his arse, warm and moist. The hands came up higher and spread him. A moment later, there was wet heat and pressure against his hole. A tongue.

Holmes gasped, wanting to simultaneously move towards and away from this newest intrusion. It felt... amazing, and yet the taboo was so strong even he was subject to it. He felt shamed, and incredibly turned on, and even more shamed for that.

Luckily, the man behind him gave him no choice. He moved his tongue in enthusiastic circles, flicking it against Holmes' sensitive skin, adding pressure or taking it away. Occasionally he moved away long enough to nip at one of Holmes' cheeks.

He thought again that this could be Watson doing this do him, and _dear god–_

Holmes fell forward onto his elbows, cradling his head against his arms. The picture of his straight-laced, conventional friend with his mouth moving against Holmes' arse was too much to bear. Holmes squeezed the base of his cock, trying to bring himself back on the edge. He focused on the smallest things: the feeling of the rug under his arm, his own harsh breaths, the taste of sweat on his lips.

"Go wash your hands and face in the basin," Ms Resham said quietly; not to him, Holmes assumed.

The man laid a soft kiss on Holmes' thigh, then got up, footsteps receding to the far end of the room. Holmes stayed where he was, on all fours, as Ms Resham circled around, then crouched in front of him. "You seem to like my surprise, Sherlock," she said.

"Yes, madam," he said, still panting. _Like_ was perhaps too weak of a verb.

"Perhaps too much," she said, apparently coming to the same conclusion. "You seem rather overwhelmed. I thought you were going to spill yourself all over my Persian rug a moment ago. Is your control slipping?"

Holmes said nothing. To do so would be to admit weakness, and he–

A gloved hand fisted in his hair. "Answer me. Your control is slipping, isn't it? All that hard-won self-mastery, you can feel it starting to slip through your fingers."

Holmes' mouth worked. "Yes," he finally whispered. Humiliation colored his cheeks red.

The hand loosened on his scalp and turned gentle, soothing his flushed cheek. "Let it go then. Just let it leave you. You can have it again when we're finished, dear boy."

Holmes sighed. He could feel the rest of his control slipping from his grasp, and after a brief moment of struggle, let it go. A sense of surrender flooded through him, sweet and shameful in turns. "Thank you, madam," Holmes said.

"You're welcome, Sherlock. Now," she said, her tone playful, "I'd like you to wear this. Just to ensure the game doesn't end before I say it can." A small loop of leather was placed in his hand. After a moment of confusion, Holmes devised its purpose. "Can you manage, or shall I have our friend help you?"

Holmes turned the leather loop around in his shaking hands. "I..."

The matter was taken out of his hands, as was the leather loop. "Probably best if our friend does it," Ms Resham said. "He doesn't mind. Do you, John?"

Holmes shivered at the – very intentional – use of that name. He felt the man's presence near to him; heard the muffled thumps as the man fell to his knees beside him. A hand was placed on Holmes' hip, and then the man was pulling Holmes upwards, to balance precariously on his knees. The man let Holmes lean against his chest, and then took Holmes' cock in hand and lazily stroked it, once, twice. Then Holmes felt the leather loop go on, and groaned as it was cinched tight over his cock and sac.

"On his back, I think," Ms Resham said.

Holmes grunted as he was pushed back onto the carpet. A hand on his hip turned him onto his back, and then raised his arms above his head.

He felt someone pull the rope attached to the cuffs; Ms Resham, then, had decided to participate actively. She held on firmly to the ropes, immobilizing him. Her physical strength had always surprised Holmes, but he was rather grateful for it at the moment.

"I think it's time to take off the clamps," the lady said.

Holmes stilled as hands brushed over him, then removed the clamps from his nipples. Holmes hissed, writhing as the circulation was restored to the abused flesh, and pain spiked through his skin. The man's hands moved over him, gentle and comforting, in long sweeping arcs.

"Do you want to stop a moment, Sherlock? Answer yes or no," Ms Resham said.

Holmes shook his head. "No."

"You want more?"

"Please," he murmured, as the hands passed over his face. He licked at one of them as it touched his lips, then hissed as it moved lower and grazed his nipple. He felt drugged; the pain and pleasure he was feeling had induced a high as potent as any substance he could inject.

The man leaned over him, kissing him languidly, then moved and situated himself between Holmes' thighs, spreading them again. Holmes could feel the man's prick, heavy and hard, lying against his thigh, so close to his own cock. The man rutted against him, moving in lazy thrusts as they kissed. Then, suddenly, the weight was gone.

He felt the man situate himself between his thighs. He heard a curious sound; a bottle being uncorked, then the scent of oil. Holmes felt a rush of nervousness, and tugged at the cuffs still holding his arms down.

"Shhh," Ms Resham said. "Relax."

A hand slid up his thigh, pushing his legs up and open. One hand squeezed reassuringly at his hip, and then Holmes felt the first press of a finger against him, lightly circling him, before cautiously breaching him. Holmes squirmed in discomfort; he'd liked it before, when the man had used his tongue, but this felt invasive. Still, he said nothing.

The man continued stroking along Holmes' thigh, occasionally touching Holmes' cock lightly or pressing against his perineum, all the while flexing his finger that was inside Holmes. Slowly, Holmes let himself relax, accept it into himself. It was no longer uncomfortable, and there was a hazy sort of pleasure in it.

Suddenly, a bolt of sensation shot through Holmes, jarring him. He groaned, back arching, pulling against the restraints.

"Good?" Ms Resham asked. Holmes could only nod dumbly, then cry out again as the feeling took him once more.

The man settled into a rhythm that had Holmes shivering, feeling as though his body were coming apart, all the seams of his consciousness unraveling. He felt swept away, marooned on an island of pure sensation: the rhythm of the man's hand, scrape of teeth on his thigh, leather cuffs chafing his wrists, his own lungs filling with each panting breath. He felt a hot mouth start licking at his cock and keened. The only thing that kept him from spilling over was the tight band of leather around his cock.

He didn't notice at first that the ties on the blindfold had come undone, until the entire cloth was removed. Holmes instinctively squeezed his eyes shut.

"Open your eyes," Ms Resham whispered.

After a bare hesitation – because he wasn't sure if he could stand to have his fantasy possibly be disproved– Holmes did as she said. He blinked, waiting for his eyes to regain their focus.

As they did, he looked down his body.

Watson's clear blue eyes looked back.

There was a moment of panic. Holmes could see it mirrored in Watson's eyes, the same thought: _We can never go back from this. _

And then following almost immediately on the heels of that;_ Who gives a damn? _

Holmes stared at Watson a though it was the first time he'd ever seen him. Perhaps it was, in a way. You could live with a person for years, and never known certain things about them; until then suddenly one day, they were perched between your naked legs, fingers inside you, having done a number of unspeakably erotic things to you for the past forty minutes.

Holmes was going to have to rethink every assumption he had about the man.

Watson stared back at him, corner of his mouth quirking up. Not breaking their shared gaze, he opened his mouth, licking across the head of Holmes' cock. Holmes's eyes nearly rolled back in his head. Watson did it again, and resumed the movement of his fingers, never removing his gaze from Holmes' face, watching every expression hungrily.

"John," Resham said quietly, a few minutes later. Holmes blinked, having almost forgotten she was there. "I think he deserves to see you come."

"Yes," Holmes blurted out. "Fuck, yes,"

"Language, Sherlock," Resham said, tugging on the ropes that still restrained his wrists. "Or I may change my mind."

"Sorry madam," Holmes mumbled. He dug his toes into the carpet, and watched Watson.

"What do you think, John?" Ms Resham said. "On his chest?"

Watson sat up a little; he was still moving his fingers inside Holmes, slowly, almost as an afterthought. "Yes," he said finally. It was the first word he had uttered since he came in the room, and his voice was rough. "Yes, I'd like that."

Holmes licked his lips, then groaned as Watson slid his fingers out. He moved so that he was straddling Holmes, sweat-slick thighs gripping Holmes' hips. He reached behind himself and picked up the bottle of oil, pouring a small amount into his hand. He corked the bottle, set it down, and then, still looking deliberately at Holmes, spread the oil on his cock, stroking it.

Holmes strained against the ropes holding his arms back, wanting so much to touch the other man. Resham held them fast, however, containing Holmes' struggles. Watson leaned down, planting one arm beside Holmes' head, and kissed him. The kiss was wet, sloppy, unrestrained. Holmes could feel Watson stroking himself, his hand and the head of his cock bumping against Holmes' stomach. Holmes kissed him back, arching into the weight of the other man, desperate for the friction and pressure on his cock; and all the while, Watson stroked himself, moaning into Holmes' mouth.

When Watson came, he bit down hard on Holmes' shoulder. Holmes felt warm spurts of semen land on his chest and stomach. The moment spun out for a long time, Watson's guttural moans reverberating in his ear. Eventually, his movements slowed and stopped, and Watson took his hand off his cock and dropped it to the floor. For a moment, the two men lay together, breathing together.

Holmes was now painfully hard, the ache spreading from his balls, the leather loop strapped tight around him. He was panting nearly as hard as Watson was. All of his nerves were electrified, muscles taut and shivering. Seeing Watson make himself – feeling him do that – and then not being able to touch him; Holmes had never been so aroused in his entire life. He would have begged for release, only his capability for speech seemed to have deserted him.

"John," Ms Resham said softly. Watson shifted, laying a soft kiss on Holmes' neck before looking up at her. "I think it's time," she said.

Holmes made an unabashedly wanton noise. Watson looked down; his cheeks were flushed, and there was a sheen of sweat on his skin. His mouth quirked up in a smile as he asked, "How shall I...?

"Your mouth. But don't rush. And also, don't forget–"

"I know," Watson said. He brushed his lips against Holmes', a touch that was maddeningly soft. But then he was moving downwards, pausing to brush a nipple or bite at a protruding hip. Watson pushed Holmes' thighs apart, and without further ado, opened his mouth and swallowed him.

Holmes' wasn't quite able to restrain himself from thrusting into his friend's mouth. Watson laid a hand on his hip, pinning him against the floor. Meanwhile, he kept moving his mouth up and down Holmes' cock, an exercise in exquisite torture that nearly had Holmes in convulsions. He was moaning, nearly shouting, uncontrolled cries being ripped right from his gut. He was writhing on the floor, all pretense at control gone, completely undone.

There was a hand on his neck, fingers clad in lace. "Now," Ms Resham said, and tightened her grip, cutting off his air. At the same time, Watson undid the knot in the strap around Holmes' cock.

His orgasm hit him like a train; a burst of sensation all over his body that was so intense, it was nearly painful. It didn't seem to end, but kept up, wave after wave hitting him.

It was too much; his sight went red, then black.

  
Holmes came back to himself slowly. He was lying on a rug in a warm room, his lower half covered with a thin blanket. Someone was rubbing a warm, damp cloth on his chest and neck. It took him a moment to recollect all that had happened to him.

He reached out, grasping the arm of the person washing him. "Watson?"

"It's me, old boy."

Holmes let out a breath and opened his eyes, letting his vision adjust to the dimly lit room. Watson sat beside him, half-dressed in a pair of trousers. The flickering shadows from the fire moved across his skin. Watson dipped the washcloth he held in his hand in a basin, wrung it out, and applied it to Holmes' stomach, rubbing it in soothing circles. His hands, Holmes noted, were steady. Holmes envied him; his own limbs all seemed to be quivering and quaking. Tremors ran through his hands, across his shoulders.

"Where is Ms Resham?"

"She excused herself shortly after you..." Watson trailed off significantly. "She asked me to clean you up and get you home. She asked you to call on her again next week, if you were available."

"Ah," Holmes said dumbly. He could feel his mind beginning to pick up its speed, getting back to its usual pace. He did not relish the sensation, knowing that the return of his senses meant acknowledging just what had happened, and its possible implications.

"I'm not sure," Holmes began, then trailed off, trying to formulate what he wanted to say. "I don't understand how this has happened. Why you're here, instead of at home." _With your wife,_ he did not add, because of course, _home_ and _wife_ were nearly synonymous for Watson.

"You didn't seem to object to my presence before," Watson said.

"I was hardly in a position to," Holmes pointed out.

"Do you object to it now?"

And there was the rub, Holmes thought. He didn't. He only objected to the possibility that it might never happen again. Or that it might cause him to lose what was left of his partnership with Watson, should Mary find out and forbid the man to associate with such an unspeakable deviant as Holmes. Holmes disliked his odds of retaining any kind of relationship with Watson in that scenario. Watson had already chosen Mary over him once before.

"Ms Resham knows Mary," Watson said, when it became apparent that Holmes wasn't about to answer. "She's an old friend. They were at school together."

Holmes felt his jaw drop open. Watson's discomfort at that first meeting, months ago, suddenly took on a wholly different light. They must not have met before, but had known of each others' existence.  
"Does Mary know about–?"

Watson nodded. "Yes."

Holmes sat up a little, staring. "Is she of... a similar disposition?"

Watson smiled wryly. "Not all the time. But she has her moments." After a moment, he added, "So do I."

Holmes fell onto his back. He'd long since ceased to be surprised at discovering new depths to his friend. In retrospect, he had perhaps underestimated Mary as well.

"Married life has been rather more than I bargained for," Watson said, still smiling. "Not that I'm complaining. It's been quite the adventure." Watson dipped the cloth in the basin again, and started to clean Holmes' jaw. After a moment, he said, in a different tone of voice: "Ms Resham told Mary that she'd been seeing you. And that she suspected you harbored a..." Watson's hand stilled as he hesitated. "A certain fixation. On me."

Holmes blinked. His heart was beating far too fast in his chest.

"Mary, she thought that I..." Watson's jaw worked.

"Might have a similar fixation on me?"

Watson nodded, exhaling heavily. After a moment, he said, "Turn over, onto your stomach."

Holmes obeyed wordlessly. He sucked in a breath as Watson pulled the sheet off his lower half, exposing his thighs and arse to the air. He heard Watson dip the cloth in the basin again, then flinched when it touched the bruised skin on his hips.

"Ms Resham made a proposal to Mary and I. One night. An experiment, as it were. Just to see what happened." The warm, wet cloth smoothed down Holmes' thighs, cleaning off the remnants of the oil still clinging to his skin. And saliva, Holmes remembered, and shivered involuntarily.

"What did Mary say?"

Watson sighed. "She agreed. She understands, though she didn't exactly leap with joy at the idea. But she consented."

"And what did you say, Watson?" Holmes asked, lifting his head to stare at the other man.

Watson stared back. "I'm here, aren't I?" At Holmes' unrelenting expression, he sighed. "Of course I wanted it, you old fool."

Holmes smiled, laying his head back down on his arms. "Thank you."

"Egotist," Watson muttered, but his tone was fond rather than exasperated.

A thought occurred to Holmes. "You mentioned that this would be an experiment? Just for one night?" he asked.

"If you wished," Watson said.

"And if I didn't?" Holmes said.

There was a touch at his shoulder. Not the cloth; just Watson's warm hand. It moved to a spot between his shoulder blades, then up to his neck, squeezing the muscles. Watson's thumb rubbed at the tender, vulnerable spot behind his jaw. In fighting, a blow to that spot would knock a man out, Holmes knew. Even small amounts of pressure could cause a person pain.

Watson's thumb rubbed soft, soothing circles against the skin. "It won't be easy," he said eventually. "Not on any of us."

Holmes turned onto his back, facing Watson. "And when have I ever given you the impression that I like things to be _easy,_ my dear?"


End file.
